Moral Obligations
by Gamebird
Summary: Peter discovers that Claire's been imprisoned and is being forced against her will to heal people. Peter has to wrestle with the difficult dilemma of what's right and what's wrong when the life and well-being of many are pitted against the freedom of one.
1. Miracles

**Title: **Moral Obligations  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli, Claire Bennet. Cameos by Gabriel Gray and Hiro Nakamura. Brief appearances by various original characters.  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Mentions of blood and medical treatment; mild violence; temporary child death.  
><strong>Word count: <strong>~13,500 in six chapters  
><strong>Setting: <strong>The story begins two months after the events of Brave New World, at the end of Season 4.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>After the leap from the Ferris wheel, Claire drops off the radar for a while. At first, Peter thought she was in hiding. Then he discovers that she's been imprisoned and is being forced against her will … to heal people. Peter has to wrestle with the difficult dilemma of what's right and what's wrong when the life and well-being of the many are pitted against the freedom of one.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Acknowledgements and thanks to GoldSeven for briefly borrowing her original paramedfic characters, Nicolas Greentree and Karen O'Neill. Huge thanks to DancingDragon3 for beta work and cheering me on relentlessly! Thanks to Means2bHuman for doing a final read-through. Written for the 2011 Heroes Big Boom.

* * *

><p>Peter hadn't believed it at first when he heard about the miracle cure from a couple of fellow EMTs. It sounded too good to be true, and while it was certainly <em>possible<em>, things probably weren't as simple as they seemed. O'Neill and Greentree had been assigned to run a patient to a new government research facility the day before. The patient was stable, but he'd lost his arm in an industrial accident and the specialists had ruled it was too damaged to be reattached. It was a normal enough run, considering the situation, but the remarkable part was when the patient came by their unit the next day, looking for the wallet he'd lost in the ambulance during the transfer. When they saw him, he had a healthy, functional, perfectly normal-looking new arm.

Karen O'Neill was a seasoned paramedic and Nicolas Greentree had been around long enough that people had a feel for his character - neither of them were liars or tale-tellers. They might exaggerate the occasional call (or at least Nick did; Karen tended to downplay), but this was not an exaggeration. Other people had seen him, too, because Karen and Nick made something of a big deal out of it. People didn't just grow new arms!

Or so most people thought. Peter had seen some truly extraordinary things in the last few years. Those events had made him sensitive to anything that might be an ability and this sounded like one that he'd had before. He wasn't as naturally curious as some, but if this was about abilities, he needed to know. The whole world could be at stake, or a single life. He couldn't just ignore it and go on with his life like everyone else. He needed to help, if help was needed.

"Hey, Karen," Peter asked after everyone else had dispersed, "where was this clinic, anyway?"

She gave him a long, steady look, but she and Peter had worked together before. Just as he knew what kind of person she was; she had a feel for him as well. He had a good reputation for effort and compassion, if not attendance and reliability. She told him, "We're not supposed to tell anyone. We had to sign a release." For a moment, the two simply looked at each other, with her silently judging him. She shared, "It's downtown, in that Homeland Security facility. When I asked them the name of the clinic so I could put it on the run sheet yesterday, they told me it was 'the new Building 26', but I don't think that's the real name. That's when they came out with the nondisclosure and confidentiality crap and told me I didn't need to know anything else."

Peter paled and his breath caught. He'd been imagining, for a moment, that someone with healing had opened a clinic and was using it as a cover to help people. He'd hoped, for once, to stumble across a use of abilities that was benign. But the involvement of the same people who had been with the old Building 26, the one in Washington, DC, lent a sinister light to the whole operation, restored arm or not. "Thanks … thanks, Karen," he said weakly as he started to leave, cold dread growing inside him.

"Why did you want to know where it was, Petrelli?" she called after him.

He laughed a little hollowly and turned to face her, walking backwards for a bit. "Maybe they know a trick or two I could learn. Wouldn't that be useful, to be able to heal people up like that?"

"Yeah, it would be. Let me know what you find out."

Peter smiled. "It's probably one of those big government secrets - 'I'd have to kill you if I told you' sort of things."

She shrugged, turning away, but he still caught what she said: "Healing people like that is worth dying to know."

Peter nodded, wordlessly agreeing, and headed out. He assumed the government had captured a special who could heal and were forcing that person to use their powers, probably against their will and possibly at a terrible price. He knew from experience how exhausting healing people could be. He couldn't really fault their results this time though - it was their methods that were in doubt. But, perhaps the secret agencies of the government were learning something. At least, there was a young man who would have been crippled for life, who now had his limb restored. _That's something, isn't it?_ Peter reassured himself, trying to keep an optimistic frame of mind. The last thing he wanted was a return to the previous year's circumstances, and life as a fugitive.

He went alone to investigate, finding the location without too much difficulty. Getting in, though, was another matter. The place was newly refurbished, including an updated security system. His current ability was Mohinder's super-strength and agility, which was not much use in trying to get in. Peter circled the place. He pressed his fingers into the slight crevices between the bricks and could _just barely_ get enough of a grip to climb. He looked up and considered that if he could get high enough, he could knock out a window … _and probably get caught inside. Maybe I should try something a little less brute force and use some finesse._ He snorted._ Finesse. Nathan would be proud of me._

He looked up Sylar, who was going by Gabriel now and had set up shop in Isaac Mendez's old loft. He'd carpeted over the floor. Apparently, having a constant reminder of the end of the world underfoot, wasn't an endearing trait of the place. He was studying how abilities worked with, of all people, Mohinder. The pair hadn't exactly worked out their differences, but they had a mutual passion that sadly, Peter simply didn't share. Peter was content that abilities worked. Knowing how or why they worked didn't interest him. Peter pretended to be checking in to make sure Gabriel was still settling in well with his new life, but he caught the raised brow and Sylar-esque look the man gave him when he patted him on the shoulder and swapped out his ability for a new one.

Gabriel followed Peter outside, ostensibly to say good-bye. Instead he asked, "Do you need any help?"

Peter gave the man a very small, knowing smile. Gabriel _so_ wanted to be a hero these days, and every time Peter was reminded of that, it was a little bit of weight off his shoulders. Still, Peter had to bite back the automatic refusal and actually think about the request. If there really were specials confined in the building, the last person he wanted there was Gabriel. Reformed or no, he had an addiction and there was no reason to tempt him. Besides, Peter liked to work alone. "No. I think I've got this one. Ask Mohinder to have Molly find me if I go missing." He refrained from saying he didn't expect trouble, because he knew Gabriel had lie detection.

Gabriel gave him a slow nod, respecting his wishes. "Be safe, Peter."

"I will," he said, giving the tall, imposing man another pat on the shoulder. "I'll see you around."

* * *

><p>It was a few days later when the opportunity to get inside the secret clinic was dumped squarely in Peter's lap. He was in the back of the ambulance teching for a patient whom he knew he was going to lose and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Even knowing that, he continued to do everything in his power to give her a chance. She was a young woman who had been walking home from work in the light rain. She'd hurried into a marked crosswalk, but hadn't seen the car speeding towards her. Neither had the driver seen her. She was knocked back scores of feet onto the unforgiving pavement, her body twisted and battered, bones shattering on impact.<p>

The real problem though was her brain. Bruised and abused, it was swelling with a sudden flood of blood and cerebral fluid. The resulting cranial pressure would kill her within all too few minutes. There were procedures that might keep her alive and Peter had immediately called in for them to prep a suite for her, but the odds of success were very, very low and they dropped with every second. It seemed to be taking them forever to get there, although Peter knew full well how a person's sense of time got skewed in a life-or-death situation. He breathed slowly, calming his adrenaline-fueled nerves so he could focus and be 'ready and steady' when they arrived. He was just about to ask Hesam how much further it was when the vehicle pulled to a stop and his partner got out. Gratefully, Peter opened the back doors and jumped out. He knew it was a long shot, but maybe they weren't too late.

Distantly, he registered that this wasn't an emergency entrance he recognized, but his thoughts were almost entirely on his patient so he didn't ponder it. Hesam helped him get the stretcher out and they turned in time to be greeted by two men posing as nurses. 'Posing' was it, too. They were beefy, slab-sided guys who were looking at Peter and Hesam instead of at the patient. They looked like a matching pair of body-builders who had been dressed up in scrubs. Peter took one look at them and his racing thoughts derailed. He looked around, making a more thorough assessment of where they were. It wasn't a hospital entrance; it was a modified loading dock. His mouth fell open as he recognized the place as the building he'd cased out only a few days earlier.

One of the nurse-posers took over the end of the stretcher while the other one tried to intercept Peter and Hesam to transfer chain of custody and exchange paperwork. Peter finally broke from his shock and side-stepped, tapping the faux-medical technician on the arm as he passed him and telling Hesam, "I'm going to go help that other guy with the patient. I'll catch up with you later." Peter hurried forward to take the other end of the stretcher, which was being hauled along by brute force. He started pushing, evening out the course. When the other man looked back, what he saw was his muscular companion helping him out. The other man turned back forward without a second thought. Peter smirked to himself as a momentary flutter of nerves settled down. Shape-shifting was a useful, underrated power. At times, it was even better than invisibility, but it was tough to internalize how differently people saw him this way.

Peter watched as the guy in front navigated security for him and all he had to do was push. He spared a few apprehensive glances at his patient. She was awfully still and pale. "We need to hurry," he said quietly. His infiltration of the place was not as important as her life, which was slipping away by the second.

"Huh?" the other man grunted. "Nah, no reason to. They've been wondering if it could bring back the dead. Maybe this is their chance to find out."

"It?" Peter asked, hoping he wasn't giving too much away by showing ignorance.

But his companion wasn't that bright. Nor was he all that forthcoming. "Uh-huh," the other man answered vaguely as they arrived at their destination. The stretcher was wheeled into a sophisticated operating room, crammed with all manner of monitoring equipment. Four medical technicians descended immediately and Peter had to bite his tongue to keep from giving his customary report on the patient's status. Instead, he watched what the techs were doing. They were strapping his patient down securely, as if there was some concern she might get away. But was one of them the healer?

His eyes scanned over them. He knew that basic appearance was no indicator of ability, but as with the meathead he was currently impersonating, and the one who had been at the other end of the stretcher, there were cues a person could pick up from body language and behavior. All four of the technicians were trained medical staff - Peter picked that up as quickly as he'd noted the two men who came for the stretcher were untrained. They weren't hurrying, which worried him, and seemed far more interested in hooking up monitors and recording the event than in treating their patient. Peter frowned, divining that these were researchers, not care specialists.

The other guy who had wheeled in the stretcher took his leave of the room almost immediately. One of the technicians, a woman who seemed to be in charge, turned to Peter, asking, "You have the paperwork showing the manner of injury, right?"

Peter stared at her, realizing the other version of 'him' was getting just that information from Hesam. His expression was a mix of blank and frightened and 'oh no', but there was nothing to fear. The tech rolled her eyes and muttered clearly enough for him to hear, "I told them they needed to hire actual nurses instead of using security for this."

Peter blinked, offended that the tech was lumping him in with the dumbbell duo, no matter who he looked like. Suddenly his mouth engaged. He began rattling off the report, but in more detail than whatever brief notes he'd been able to jot down earlier, and probably much more accurately than whatever Hesam was filling out. The woman's eyes widened with surprise as the burly man before her supplied far more information than she'd expected. She grabbed her own report sheet and started taking notes.

Peter watched as they set up a camera, hooked up a transfusion bag and attached leads for monitoring his patient's condition. What he saw on the readouts was troublesome. They were losing her. He walked closer, towering over one of the techs to see. "You've got to do something. She's dying," he said. Whoever had the ability, they needed to use it soon or it would be too late, if it wasn't already.

A couple of the techs looked at him in surprise at what was a clearly uncharacteristic level of concern. The woman he'd been talking to said, "She'll be fine. Just step back and we'll get started." She reached over and fiddled with the camera, turning it on. "Did you know her or something?" she asked over her shoulder.

"No," Peter said, staring at the heart rate monitor, where the rhythm was rapidly becoming more irregular.

The tech saw the same thing, but seemed unbothered. "Okay, open it up," she said.

Peter frowned and shifted his weight anxiously, watching the technicians. They were all watching the patient with a sort of awe on their faces like they were about to witness a miracle. Finally he turned his eyes to her as well. His brows furrowed. Last time he'd looked at her, she'd been dreadfully pale. Now her skin was pinking. She moved slightly, breathing deeper. Then she moaned. Immediately one of the techs went to her head and put a hand on her shoulder, leaning in a little and telling her, "Ma'am, you're going to be alright. The pain will pass. Try not to fight it."

_The pain?_ Peter thought. The woman's eyes were open now - she'd regained consciousness. She moved her leg against the restraints - a leg that had been shattered before. She cried out twice, then stopped, panting. Peter watched as the abrasions on her face faded and disappeared. He looked back and forth between the techs, but only one was touching her and he'd touched her _after_ she'd started healing.

Peter's eyes went next to the transfusion bag. They hadn't asked her blood type. A few more minutes passed as their patient made a complete recovery. Peter's jaw had dropped as his mind put together what had happened. The technician he'd spoken with earlier stepped back next to him and said, "It's incredible, isn't it? I only wish we had authorization to take more. I'm sure she could support four or five a day and not just the two we're allowed take."

"She?" he asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Yes. Claire."


	2. Regrets

The last time Peter had seen Claire had been at the carnival in Central Park, surrounded by reporters. A few days later he had the opportunity to watch the news, but there was nothing on it about her big reveal. Nor was there anything in the newspapers. He looked online and found a few photos and film clips, all of which said her jump had been a publicity stunt for the financially embattled Sullivan Brothers Carnival. As Peter thought about it, trying to convince the world of the existence of specials by displaying one's ability at a carnival whose primary attraction was freak shows, was like trying to tell people magic was real while standing on stage at a Las Vegas magic show. No one believed her.

Peter had gone on with his life, not thinking about Claire's attempted outing of all things 'special'. He had Sylar to get settled and the various fallout from that; Peter had a job; he was still trying to work himself up to dating Emma; he still didn't trust his mother. Checking up on Claire hadn't made it to Peter's to-do list and he regretted that now. If he'd learned anything from the debacle with Nathan and not knowing his own brother had died, and the five subjective years spent with Sylar, it was that people needed connections and relationships.

_I should have at least called her!_ Guilt ate at him as he took the responsibility of Claire's situation onto himself. He had to find her and make sure she was okay.

Peter let himself out of the operating room before his duplicate caught up with him and exposed his disguise. He took off deeper into the building, heading towards the guard station he could see at the end of the hall. They had to be guarding _something_, so that was where he'd start.

"Hey," he said, taking the direct route. "Where's Claire?"

The two guards on duty regarded him with bored expressions. "In her room, like normal." One of them gestured vaguely to the right.

Peter nodded, glancing at the various monitors the guards had access to. He could see Claire clearly in two of them. "What's she doing?" He leaned forward for a better look, wondering how far he could get with acting like he knew what he was doing.

Apparently not very far, as the guard who had spoken took on a slightly suspicious look at his interest. He glanced at one of the screens. "Looks like she's reading a book."

Peter looked down the hallway in the direction the guard had waved. The door which was hers was pretty obvious. It was the one in a metal frame, with a security pad next to it. "I need to see her."

"What for?" the guard asked, _really _suspicious now and shifting forward in his seat.

Peter eyed him. The man had a gun and was wearing an armored vest, just like the other guard. No threats were being made yet. A long, tense moment passed until the other guard, who still looked bored, said, "I've been reading these new procedures, Dave, and I didn't see anything in them that would keep one of us from talking to her."

Dave, the guard Peter was talking to, snapped, "She's not supposed to have outside contact!"

"I'm not outside contact," Peter assured him. "I'm one of us, not one of them." He smiled at the double meaning. "All I want to do is talk to her. You'll be listening." _Which will really make it difficult to talk to her, but maybe I can write something down …_

Dave shook his head, but he seemed to back down and relax. "No, they still don't have the audio hooked up in there. They'll be by next week to install it."

_So much the better. I guess they aren't finished with the refurbishments._ "But you'll still be watching. All I'm going to do is talk to her." He wondered if she knew what her blood was being used for. She _had_ to. Peter knew he needed something else to green-light his request, so he took a shot in the dark and added, "It's about the last patient."

Something about that statement worked for Dave, like it was a magic code that made it all okay. He rolled his eyes and laughed. "What, are you brown-nosing again?" Peter laughed a little to be friendly and Dave went on, "Fine, go ahead. See if you can accomplish something all the shrinks haven't. Be my guest." Peter nodded slowly and walked over to the door. The guards buzzed him in and he walked inside.

The room looked nothing like a prison cell, though Peter had already seen that from the monitors. It had two windows with blinds, but no bars (he could see now that the glass was incredibly thick and most likely shatter-proof; it had a nice bed with a spread and frilly pillows (not Peter's style, but maybe it was Claire's); there were stuffed animals, pictures of striking landscapes, bookshelves, a dresser, a wardrobe, and a mirror; it was carpeted and the walls were paneled for part and painted for another; and there was a door he suspected led to a bathroom, given the other accoutrements. Claire herself was sitting at a desk that featured a flat screen TV on a swivel stand, though at the moment she was reading a thick, hardback book. She gave him a short, baleful glare and went back to reading.

She looked good, though he knew that didn't say much about what she might have been put through. Her hair was neat and orderly, as were her clothes, so that was something. She didn't look happy, but he'd hardly expected that. She was wearing her normal amount of makeup, which he took to be another good sign. All in all, she still looked like the middle-teen, petite girl she'd been when he first met her, eternally young. It made it tough to take her seriously sometimes, he realized, feeling a fresh wave of guilt.

"Claire," he said and even though he knew he looked like someone else entirely, it felt odd that she didn't recognize him.

She didn't bother to look up at her name, speaking in a biting, sarcastic tone as she pretended to keep reading, "What is it _this_ time? Do I need to go look at someone_ else_ who can walk now or isn't burned nearly to death anymore or has woke up from a coma for the first time in four years? Have you come to try and _guilt trip_ me into being more _cooperative - __**again**_?"

Peter blinked. _Burned nearly to death._ A vision of Nathan flashed behind his eyes, burned so badly after flying Peter into the sky over New York, saving everyone_. Nathan…_

'_They've been wondering if it could bring back the dead.'_

He felt like he'd been kicked in the gut, every ounce of the pain and horror over his brother's death re-awakening in an instant as he realized, remembered, that Claire had been right there in the Stanton Hotel with him when Nathan had been killed. He hadn't known about Nathan's death until far too late. Neither had she. But his mother had. Noah had. And yet … nothing had been done.

'_They've been wondering if it could bring back the dead.'_ The words echoed in Peter's mind again, and he swallowed roughly at the realization of how easily Nathan might have been saved. Had Noah said nothing, fearing that his daughter might be locked up and used to heal people? Had Nathan remained dead because Noah wanted Claire to be free? _My mother had to be just as involved._

Claire was looking at him now, her expression puzzled and sharp. Peter struggled to get control of himself and focus on the here and now. He knew that what he had felt from losing Nathan, like having his heart torn out and burned, was how most people felt on losing a loved one. Claire had to be 'guilt tripped' into cooperating in waking people up from comas, regaining the ability to walk, or healing from life-threatening burns? Anger ran through him, thoroughly chasing away the grief, guilt, and confusion.

Peter glanced up at the camera, trying to pick an angle that would confuse the view of his lips. "I'm Peter. Your uncle," he said tersely. "I have shape-shifting."

Her eyes widened briefly and she started to rise, her expression open and hopeful and trusting. A moment later though, her eyes narrowed and she sank back down, leaning away from him as her initial belief was overrun by doubt. "Prove it," she demanded.

_That's easy._ He chuckled dryly and looked off to the side, cupping his elbow in one hand and using the other to obscure his mouth. "When we were in the kitchen together after Nathan's funeral, we were cutting up lemons and you cut yourself. I had Rene's power and it kept you from healing. You said you wanted to feel it - the pain."

She smiled slowly, then jumped up and ran across the room to hug him fiercely. For a brief moment, he hugged her back. His anger faded in the face of her relief and joy at seeing him. Then he remembered the cameras. "No, Claire … you can't." He pushed her away. "They're watching."

She shook her head, but let him push her back. "I don't care!" she burst out angrily, turning and going back to the bed, flopping down on it. "They watch me _constantly!_"

He raised his brows, rolled his eyes a little and shrugged. "Yeah … they probably do." He looked at her angry demeanor and around at her room. "Are they treating you okay, otherwise?"

She snorted and rolled over to stare at the ceiling, then at one of the not-at-all-hidden cameras. "That _doesn't __**matter**_," she ground out, like she'd been asked that question many times before and, many times before, answered it.

_Isn't this what you wanted? A chance to help people and be special? You were trying to show everyone your ability. This proves what you can do._ His brow furrowed. _**Is**__ that what she wants? Or am I seeing her through the lens of my own desires, and what I would do with her power if I had it?_ "So, what, they come in here and take your blood, then go heal people with it?"

She huffed, but then her expression smoothed and blanked. She was still staring at the camera. "Yes," she said, devoid of inflection.

Peter walked forward to the corner of the bed, looking at her face. "You … you've seen the people you've saved? You've seen what they're doing?"

"Yes," she said and this time her voice was bitter.

He was confused. _Why is she upset? Isn't this a good thing? For once it sounds like the government is doing it right. They must be prioritizing patients, triaging them for her, like a dispatcher. They're even trying not to push her too far. They bring the patients to her instead of her having to do something like work as a paramedic to find them. Not that I mind working, but maybe she would._ "What … what are they doing _wrong?_" he asked, filled with genuine stupefaction.

She turned to stare at him, her expression momentarily livid, then disbelieving, then heartbroken. She shuddered and looked away. "_You. Fucking. Bastard._" she whispered harshly.

"What?" He felt like she'd stabbed him with those words. He felt every shred of hate and bile behind them even if he didn't understand it. "Claire … are they hurting you? I'll-"

She leaped off the bed and jumped at him, screaming and cursing, her face twisted in a sudden, ugly rage. "It's wrong! It's fucking wrong! You don't get to do that to people! They milk me like a fucking cow, Peter! _**I am not an animal!**_" She attacked him, clawing and swinging with surprising strength. He fell back before the onslaught, getting his hands up to defend himself, but getting bruised, battered, and scratched anyway.

"Claire!" he yelled, grabbing her forearms in time to take an agonizing and debilitating kick to the side of his knee. He fell, dropping her, just as the door opened. She snarled at the two guards who rushed into the room and then she retreated back to the bed. Peter massaged his knee. It hurt like hell. It was hyper-extended, but he thought he could walk on it if he were careful. It took him a moment to realize Dave was talking to him when he called him Chris and asked if he was okay. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just help me up."

Peter got to his feet and leaned against the doorframe, gingerly testing if his leg was good to put weight on it. One good thing about impersonating a big guy was that the other two weren't keen on having to carry him out. They waited to see if Peter could make it on his own. Peter gave Claire a perplexed, searching look.

"Get me out of here!" she demanded of him openly.

Dave gave her a bemused look and then waved the other guard out of the room. "Go man the desk. I'll get Chris out when he can walk."

A vision of Nathan's face healing with the infusion of Adam's blood ran through Peter's mind, followed closely by the frightened woman he'd seen saved only minutes before. She would have died without Claire's blood - Peter was certain. "I can't do that, Claire," he said, his voice pleading. _People would die without you._ Every person she saved was one less family who had to deal with the agony of losing a loved one. This wasn't like the pointless incarceration he'd endured at the Company, and he'd taken that patiently and willingly while he thought his imprisonment was saving others. Her efforts here had _meaning_.

"Yes, you can!" she snapped. "Don't give me that bullshit! Don't _lie_ to me, -!" She opened her mouth as if she was about to speak his name, but then shut it, still fuming. Dave was watching with an interest that wavered between amused and concerned.

Peter looked at Dave for a moment, deciding the other man was going to let him speak his piece here. He turned back to Claire and said, "You're helping people. What I wouldn't give to be able to do what you're doing. This … this is what people like you …" He trailed off, wondering if her gift came with any obligation to use it well. He'd always thought (and many times said to the former killer) that Sylar's ability came with a responsibility to control himself and use it wisely. If that were true, then didn't it follow that Claire also had a responsibility, as much as Peter too had one to work for the betterment of others? Peter had thrown himself into that life for years now, so much so that it was almost impossible for him to see any other path.

"People like me? People who are _different?_" She spat the last word. Once again, Claire had that expression of deepest betrayal on her face and Peter felt his heart wrench.

"_**I hate you**_," she said bitterly. "I hate _you_ and I hate everyone who thinks they get to say how I live my life. I hate my father, and I hated Nathan, and I hate Angela, and I hate **YOU** if you leave me in this _**PRISON!**_" She rose at the end, yelling, and Dave faced off with her briefly, enough to make sure she stopped her forward progress and didn't attack Peter a second time. Instead, she stood in impotent fury next to the bed. Dave turned and hustled the stunned Peter out of the room, letting the door swing shut automatically behind him.

Peter didn't know what to say. He was completely without words. Dave helped him limp down to the desk and tried to get him to sit. Peter refused, mostly ignoring what the other man was saying about workman's comp and notifying human resources of a workplace injury. He paid attention when the other guard, the one who had acted bored earlier, said, "She's always the worst right after they bleed her." Very observantly he added, "I think it makes her feel guilty."

Peter sighed. That was almost certainly true. Claire knew the agency, the government, or whoever was saving lives with her blood. She'd said as much. They weren't performing depraved experiments, vivisection, or torture. They were helping normal people, saving them and allowing them to live normal lives. _Of course_ Claire would feel guilty. She knew she should be on board with this.

"I'm going to go home and put some ice on my knee," Peter muttered. Dave patiently repeated his previous instructions about worker's compensation and filing a claim. Peter nodded and agreed he'd do that. He walked off down the hall, lost in thought. He had a lot to think about.


	3. Introspection

Later that night, Peter limped into his apartment, looking like Peter Petrelli once more. Shape-shifting had not healed him, which was annoying. He sort of wished Sylar was here to come home to like he used to be, so Peter could swap powers. It wasn't worth calling him, not with the risk that the man might take it upon himself to get involved and Peter still hadn't figured out what needed to be done.

He made a new ice pack to replace the one he'd rigged at work and changed into some loose-waisted boxers so he could apply an ACE bandage. Then he flopped onto the couch and finally started applying the RICE treatment that Hesam had nagged him about for the last portion of his tour. Peter had rarely taken good care of himself. The only reason he was doing it now was so he could think.

As his hands went about the familiar work of wrapping his knee, his thoughts turned to college.

_If I remember that philosophy class correctly, a moral dilemma is any time two moral principles are in conflict. It's general. I think the classic is how to love your neighbor when your neighbor is doing something harmful to you. But in a lot of cases, you can look at the situation and choose to do nothing, which still means you kind of suck, but you have a sort of moral high ground by not having acted to contradict either of your principles. It's kind of like turning the other cheek. No, that's it exactly. Civil disobedience maybe._

_But a moral _obligation_ is when you can't just stand there and do nothing. You _**have**_ to act. You have an obligation to act. Just like … I have abilities. I'm obligated to use them to help people. That's my job; that's my __**real **__job._ He sighed. _Claire … is she obligated to use her ability to help others? She wouldn't be feeling guilty about it if she didn't recognize that on some level. But … should I help get her out? If I do, then there are people who won't be saved. If I don't, then … really, what are they doing to her that's so bad?_

Peter grimaced and rubbed at his forehead in frustration. This would be so much easier if she had agreed to the process, if she didn't seem like a prisoner and a victim herself, if she hadn't looked at him like she had, like he'd driven a knife into her heart. That was what hurt the most - her expression and the emotion he knew was behind it. He squirmed uneasily on the couch like he couldn't get comfortable and the truth was he couldn't - not while that vision of her face was haunting him. Guilt would not let him rest. It gnawed at his gut at the same time that his throat felt like it was closing off in panic. Panic that he was missing something. Claire had been so angry, so outraged, and vicious ... even though the situation looked benign, the way she acted, you would think they were torturing her. Violating her.

_They're just taking her blood. I take people's blood all the time._ He growled in irritation, mostly at himself, because he could already see where this line of thought was going. There were people in the medical industry who said that giving blood should be mandatory. They said that organ donation should be default. He understood. He didn't agree, but he understood. He put IV lines into people sometimes a half dozen times a day. He didn't ask permission. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd asked permission. It was usually just "I'm sorry, but I have to do this," followed by a brief explanation of why, and even that assumed his patient was conscious. If they weren't, no one considered later that no consent had been given. Blood samples were taken routinely and again, there was no issue with obtaining consent in a case of medical emergency. In fact, as an emergency responder, he was legally _obligated_ to do whatever was medically necessary to sustain the patient.

The people Claire's blood was helping - they were medical emergencies. And it would be an easy decision for Peter if Claire was actually hurt by what they were doing, but he doubted it. From what he'd overheard, they were respecting her limits. From what he'd seen they were making her life as good as they could. Even if it was a cage, they'd at least gilded it. He suspected that if they didn't think she'd flee, if she could be trusted to show up each day like it was a job, then she wouldn't even be confined. Or maybe she would, because Peter knew she was going to be mobbed if news ever got out that she was restoration and resurrection on legs for anyone who could hold her down and drain her blood. The whole world would turn into a bunch of vampires, because who didn't have a loved one with an illness or a disability? And then there was the likely possibility that her blood could be used to slow aging or enhance performance. Her blood could become a drug, sold for the highest price. He shuddered at the idea and the horrible images his mind was coming up with. Claire thought she was a prisoner now, but there was far worse that she could be going through.

Claire needed the protection the government could give her, because the news of what she could do was getting out. Ironically, her attempt to come out to everyone had flopped and been discounted as fake, but now people were starting to believe. How could you not when you had an arm back, good as new, that had previously been lost? Peter had only heard about it because whatever the government had been doing to date to keep this under wraps was failing. It was only a matter of time, and not much time at that, before it was well known. There would be testimonials. There would be people demanding the government make transparent how they were doing this. There would be people demanding that they find Claire's limits and see if she could heal three, or four, or ten people a day.

Put that way, he really had no choice. Or at least, inaction was not a moral choice. If he left her in there, it was going to get bad. She was going to be hurt. She was going to be abused and he couldn't stand by for that. The restraint that had been shown to date would not continue. Peter knew how people were, especially when their loved ones' lives were on the line. He knew what he would have done, there in the Stanton Hotel, if he'd known her blood could have revived his brother. He certainly wouldn't have asked her permission, and he _loved_ Claire. They would kill the goose that laid the golden egg; it would be a tragedy of the commons. He had to get her out of there and get her somewhere that she could be safe in anonymity for a while longer. Noah had been right.

Peter set aside his warring senses of duty. His panic and doubts were swept aside by the rising tide of momentum and the clarity of purpose. She was his niece. He was worried for her. She needed him. He would act.

That resolved, he levered himself off his couch and sat up, putting the ice pack to the side for the moment. He was thinking that the first thing he needed to do was go visit Gabriel and Mohinder again. He'd need their help. That was when his door was busted in.


	4. False Expectations

Peter would have liked to have said there was an exciting fight and it took four people to wrestle him to the ground, or that he leapt athletically from the couch and crashed onto the fire escape, where he was only captured after an extended pursuit. Peter had enough of an ego to wish for either of those, rather than what really happened. He sat there shocked as three men and one woman, all in SWAT uniforms, rushed inside his apartment and fanned out to either side of the door, guns trained on him as soon as they saw him. His eyes widened and he raised his empty hands slowly, very slowly.

What he would have given to have telekinesis or lightning or a lot of different powers right then, instead of shape-shifting and a bum leg. He saw after a moment of panicked inspection that the guns weren't normal. They looked more like dart guns. That calmed him a little. A terrified thought had shot through his mind that they might think he had regeneration and shoot him on sight - a downside of having his very flexible ability was that people might reasonably and inaccurately assume he had all of them as he once had.

But not only did they not have lethal ammunition, they weren't shooting on sight. A fifth person, an older man, stepped up between the other four people, dressed in SWAT gear as well, but without a weapon drawn. He looked Peter up and down carefully. "Peter Petrelli?"

A lot of possible answers and non-answers passed through Peter's head, but at the moment he looked exactly like himself. Shifting into someone else right in front of them and claiming a different identity wasn't going to help. Reluctantly he said, "Yes?"

The man tossed a set of handcuffs to Peter and said gruffly, "Put those on."

Peter caught them easily and looked sullenly between the cuffs and the uninvited guests in his apartment. He looked at those dart guns again, wondering what was in them. "What will you do if I don't?" he said, trying to buy time while he tried to think of a way out of this. His options weren't looking good.

The man pulled out a boxy black device Peter was well familiar with and more than a little averse to. The SWAT leader threatened, "If you don't put them on, I will taser you until you _shit yourself_ and then put them on you myself and make you walk out of here covered in your own excrement." He paused, meeting Peter's eyes evenly.

Peter glared back at him. _That's … as threats go, that's something he _could_ do. Easily._ Peter kept glaring anyway. _I don't want to get handcuffed and taken wherever, but if I don't do it, then this is going to get bad, fast. Or rather, worse_. He was sure of that. He blinked once, then again. He looked down, away from the man's steely grey eyes. He snapped the cuffs onto himself.

"Good." To his people, the SWAT leader said, "Gary, on me. The rest cover us," and walked closer. Peter noticed that none of his people acted like the handcuffs made any difference in his level of dangerousness. That was sort of flattering, he supposed. The leader put away his taser and snapped the holster closed so Peter couldn't easily pull it. 'Gary' did the same with his dart gun. The guy in charge got out a small ring of keys and stepped over to Peter, reaching down and unlocking one side of the cuffs.

Peter looked up at him with a truly mystified expression. _Why the hell is he letting me go?_ Gary had moved up behind the guy in charge, readying himself. They were positioning for something, something they'd obviously practiced … Taking hold of the arm with the dangling handcuff, the leader put his other hand on the back of Peter's neck and Peter figured out what was going on just a half second too late. The man twisted Peter's arm and leveraged him face first into the couch. Peter kicked and struggled, but the other man was across his legs and his free arm was snatched behind his back before he could stop it. His knee throbbed painfully. A moment later there was a click and the cool slide of metal was around both wrists again. _So that's it - they wanted me cuffed behind my back?_ Peter grumbled mentally and waited while, for a moment, nothing else happened. He took a deep breath, feeling his racing heart pounding away in his chest over the suddenly there, suddenly gone threat.

Then Gary got off Peter's legs and the other guy pulled Peter upright slowly. Peter gave him a wordless snarl. The leader studied Peter's face determinedly for a few moments before saying to his people, "Holster weapons. Search the place." Three of them fanned out to do so. Peter started breathing harder, rage bubbling inside of him that he was going to have to sit here and watch while they trashed his place. What little he had here was still _his_. But while he could hear them opening things and closing them, he heard nothing broken. Gary had stayed with the leader in the room with Peter. He poked absently through Peter's few possessions. The other three came in soon and did a more thorough examination. Nothing was thrown on the floor, or even left out of place. They just looked at things and moved on.

Peter calmed down marginally, but the entire situation was throwing him for a loop. He wasn't sure if he should be frightened, or threatened, or what, and he didn't like feeling so off-balance. "What are you looking for?" he finally asked as the trio moved into the kitchen.

"Anything unusual," the guy in charge said, looking Peter up and down, taking in the boxer shorts and the sock-clad feet. "Where are your pants?"

"Over there," Peter said, waving towards the other end of the couch. The man picked them up and rifled through the pockets, tossing Peter's utility knife on the end table.

"Shoes?"

Peter glanced after the knife, then looked at his feet and flexed his toes. "In my bedroom, next to the bed." It was where he always put them so they'd be there when he woke up. One of the few things Peter tended to do that was ruthlessly organized was be able to leap from bed and be on the run in record time. _Fat lot of good it did me tonight,_ he groused to himself.

"Gary?" the SWAT leader gave a jerk of his head and Gary fetched Peter's shoes. To Peter's surprise, the leader knelt and held his pants so Peter could put his feet into them.

"I could do that if you'd …" Peter trailed off. He wasn't getting the vibe that they'd fall for something like taking his cuffs off so he could dress himself and anyway, the guy was already moving on to sliding one of Peter's feet into a pant leg.

Gary came over and helped Peter stand while the guy in charge pulled the pants up. Peter flushed with a moment of embarrassment as he realized he had to allow the other man to fasten them. Then he knelt and began to put Peter's shoes on his feet, finally answering Peter's comment. "No. The handcuffs stay on. We're taking you out of here and you won't be back for a while. Do you have any pets we need to know about - dog, cat, lizard, fish, anything that needs care?"

"No," Peter answered, surprised that they would be that considerate. Peter grimaced and hissed a little as the man inadvertently twisted his injured leg as he started putting the shoe on it. The man paused and looked from Peter's face to his knee and then to the ice pack that was sitting on the couch.

"How bad is your leg?"

"I can walk."

"Good." Very gently he eased Peter's other shoe on, trying to minimize the pain.

Peter sighed deeply. It bothered him, oddly, that he wasn't dealing with monsters. He would have felt a lot better about things if the people he was dealing with were insensitive assholes who didn't care if they trapped a cat in the apartment and left it to starve. But they _did _care. They were human beings and as far as Peter could see, surprisingly nice ones at that. Or at least the guy in charge was and he set the tone for the others.

"Who do you work for?" Peter asked.

"US government, Homeland Security." It wasn't the answer Peter had expected. He couldn't imagine this guy working for the likes of Danko, or whoever it was who had been in charge of rounding up specials last time. He just couldn't. The man stood up and tilted his head at Peter. "I'm told you have an ability. What is it?"

Peter raised a single brow. _They don't know?_ "It's nothing dangerous."

Gary supplied helpfully, "She said he had shape-shifting in the briefing."

Peter saw the expression of momentary long-suffering that passed over the leader's face. The man said with exasperation, "Yes, _I know that._ I wanted to see if he'd _tell us_. Judging your target's cooperativeness is a key step in the process, remember?"

He glowered pointedly at Gary, who looked chastised as he said, "Yes sir."

The guy in charge snorted and turned back to Peter. "They also said it's not necessarily the same power all the time. You can switch. So, whaddaya got?"

Peter looked past the guy at Gary, who was embarrassed, but not afraid. He'd made a bad misstep with his boss and he wasn't frightened of the consequences of that. He'd been upbraided and that was apparently all that was going to happen. Their comportment was doing a lot to gain Peter's trust, much as Peter would have rather continued to regard them as the enemy. Peter peered up at the SWAT leader and shrugged, deciding to give them the truth. "Shape-shifting. That's it." The man grunted.

The other three came out of the kitchen, with one shaking her head and saying, "All clear. Single male occupant conforming to him, Peter Petrelli, matches profile provided. The only alerts are he has some police paraphernalia, a scanner, some guidebooks, a lot of medical texts and biology books … he has a trauma kit and some medical equipment, along with what looks like a panic bag."

"Anything that looks like weapons or restraints?"

"No," the SWAT member reported. Peter didn't even have a pistol anymore. But he did keep a panic bag.

The leader shrugged. "Fine. He's a paramedic with a genetic anomaly and multiple episodes of being hunted. So he's not stupid, but I'd already figured that out." He moved to Peter's side and hooked a hand under Peter's arm. "Come on. We're going. Cooperate and I'll send someone back to fix your door first thing in the morning. Give me a problem and I'll forget to do that."

Peter heaved another sigh. He couldn't think of anything else to do at the moment, so cooperate he did.


	5. Resurrection of Hope

Peter found himself back in the same building he'd been at earlier, where Claire was being held. _No big surprise here, he thought bitterly. Claire sold me out. Not just who I was, but what my ability was, where I lived, and how likely I was to give that team a problem. They even knew she was my niece. No holds barred,_ he concluded sourly as he was wheeled down the hallway towards one of the operating rooms. He was handcuffed to the wheelchair, but otherwise unharmed. He had to admit they'd treated him well, physically, but he understood how Claire had had enough of this. _I don't even get to button up my own fucking pants!_ The restraints on his freedom, the inability to even scratch his nose, were already irritating the hell out of him.

His chair was pushed into a viewing room off to the side of the operating room. Claire was waiting there for him, as was Tina, the medical technician he'd spoken with when he'd first infiltrated the place. Tina had turned out to be the director of research and was apparently a big deal - Peter and she had had a brief and unproductive conversation shortly after his forced return. Peter's chauffeur for the day, the man pushing the wheelchair, was ironically, Chris; the same person he'd impersonated before. The synchronicity of it all would be laughable, if the situation wasn't so grim.

Peter caught how Claire's eyes jumped between him and the man behind the wheelchair. After all, the last time she'd seen Chris, he'd been Peter. Peter sighed angrily, making no secret of his annoyance that she'd outed and betrayed him. He looked away from her and rose as much as he could from his seat to peer into the operating room itself. There was no patient, but two technicians were prepping the room. Peter frowned. _They aren't prepping that for me, are they? _

Tina said, "Claire? You should do this quickly. The ambulance will be arriving at any time."

_Not me, then,_ Peter thought with a little relief.

Claire nodded as Tina began arranging implements for drawing blood. Peter had already, over his objections, had an IV line installed. _Yeah, really starting to understand Claire's point of view here,_ Peter thought.

Claire walked over to him and he had a brief flashback to a very angry Claire in a future that would never come to pass, torturing him while he was chained to a gurney. He glowered at her. She bent and took his hand. "You were going to leave me in there, Peter," she said apologetically. "This is my only way out."

He looked at where she was holding his hand, narrowing his eyes at that touch. "Way out? What do you mean?"

"You think it's not that bad in here? Take my ability and we can trade places. You can heal all these people … and I can have a normal life."

He shook his head firmly, his suspicion about why she was holding his hand now confirmed. "It doesn't work that way." She could touch him all she wanted, but _he_ was the one who controlled whether he took an ability these days.

"Yes, it does," Claire said, a tinge of desperation coloring her voice. "Just take my ability, Peter!" She squeezed his hand hard, for all the good that would do her.

"When I copy a power, I don't always get every feature of it. I don't get _that_ one." He twisted his hand out of her suddenly weak grip. "It won't do any good."

She stared at him, face fallen. "You've tried it? It didn't work?" Softly she breathed, "Oh, no …"

"Well … no." Peter admitted, and hope flared back to life on Claire's face. Peter's brows drew together as he thought about it. He didn't exactly go around injecting his blood into random patients to see what would happen. That was just ridiculous. He thought back to when Adam had injected his blood into Nathan, curing him of his burns after Kirby Plaza and restoring Peter's brother to health and vigor. _But Adam said it wouldn't work for me. He said it had to be __**him**__, not me. Maybe he just said that so I'd owe him for Nathan?_

_What if,_ Peter sucked in breath as he contemplated the possibility,_ what if my blood could have healed Nathan all along and I never even tried because of what that bastard told me?_ Adam had told him a lot of small truths, but he'd used them to cloak the big lies. Maybe he'd lied about Peter's ability, too._ It might work. What if it __**does**__ work? _"We-we could try," he said haltingly, wrapping his rough hand around her tiny one. A familiar tingle accompanied the transfer and a moment later, the constant ache in his knee disappeared. Claire was smiling now, hopeful.

"I did it!" Claire said exuberantly to Tina, who merely 'hmm'd' in response.

"Claire, they're not going to let you _go_." _Can she not see that? It's perfectly clear, _he thought, wondering at her naïveté.

"Why wouldn't they? They've got **you** now." She seemed thrilled, in addition to being short-sighted, which was an unfortunate trait for an immortal to have. Peter felt like he was seeing her clearly for the first time, and what he saw troubled him.

Peter took in a deep breath, wondering if this was how Sylar, Gabriel, whatever, always felt with him. _Poor guy_. "Claire, if it works, then they'll have two of us. Why would they let you go? All this will do is mean one of us is expendable. They already want to know how much they can push you. If they have two of us, then they'll find out, because _there's no reason __**not**__ to_. If they hurt you, or me, really bad, they've lost nothing because they'll still have the other. Hell, they can probably use one of us to revive the other, so there's no reason now why they wouldn't move into really dangerous experiments."

Peter looked at Tina as she was busily beginning to draw blood from him. She was keeping her face down and pretending not to hear him. It wasn't politeness - he was too much the empath not to see that he was right and she was trying to hide it. He looked back at Claire, frowning in sorrow on her behalf. For his own part, he was pretty sure he knew what he'd just signed on for and if it saved people, he'd do it. Claire, though, wanted out so badly that she was seeing opportunities where there were none. He had to make her understand, for her own sake.

He could still see the denial, so he desperately offered another analogy, "Listen, imagine that your parents - Noah and Sandra - are driving together. There's a horrible car accident and both are dying. Are you seriously telling me that, if you were in charge of this project, you'd only have me - one person - and know that you'd have to choose one of them to save and let the other die, when you had the chance to have you _and_ me, so you could save both of them?"

Claire's face twisted with anger and guilt. "Peter, they've told me that! Don't you understand? They've paraded people past me - everyone is someone's son or daughter or mother or brother or whatever! **EVERYONE!**" she ended shouting. For a moment she stood there with her eyes shut, silently breathing, getting a grip on herself. She opened her eyes and knelt next to Peter, putting her soft hand over his. "But … Peter … there's only one _**me**_," she said pleadingly, tears wetting her lashes. She looked up into his face in entreaty and Peter's heart lurched. "Is it so wrong for me to be selfish? Is it so wrong to want to have control over my life?_ I'm the only person I have_."

Peter felt the anger drain out of him and he slumped in his seat. With those last few honest and heart-felt words, he finally understood what she had been trying to say all along. She was right. She was wrong. And it didn't matter anyway. It was her life and her choice to make. In resignation, he pointed out, "They're still not going to let you go." He watched as the truth finally settled in Claire's blue-green eyes that then turned to look hopelessly at the woman working at Peter's side.

Tina finished up, leaving the IV line in place in Peter's arm as she took away the blood she'd drawn from him. Her silence during Peter and Claire's argument was, to Peter, an eloquent and disappointing confirmation that Peter's capture was not Claire's 'get out of jail free' card. He didn't think she was a villain in this either, though. He gave her his blood type just in case it mattered. She noted it dutifully and left the room. Peter heard the tones of her voice outside the door as she spoke briefly with the guard or guards who were apparently there. For the moment, he and Claire were in the room alone.

She was frowning at him. "If you think they're just going to trap both of us, then why did you take my ability? They would have just let you go if you couldn't do anything!"

He looked upwards briefly. "Because I'm the only one_** I've**_ got, Claire, and if I can help people, I will." He looked back at her. "That's what I _do_." _I don't chase after a normal life like a disaffected teenager - I __**live**__ one, like an adult!_ He glanced away now, grinding his teeth and avoiding telling her she had to grow up. It would really suck if her intellectual development never progressed any further than her physical. "If I can help people, then I'll help. I was _going_ to help _you_ - help you get out of here - when these guys you sent crashed through my door." He jerked his chin in the direction of the operating room in annoyance.

Claire let go of his hand and stood up, backing away. "You were …" She tilted her head in confusion. "But you said you weren't going to get me out …"

_Actually, I said I '_couldn't'_, which was true at that point in time._ But he didn't argue the technicality. That was something Sylar would have done and Peter had spent too many years alone with him not to have picked up a few of the other man's bad habits. Instead, Peter gave her the truth. "I changed my mind. People do that. I thought about it and decided you were right. I was going to get help when they barged in."

Speaking of barging in, there was a sudden flurry of activity in the room next door. Sitting in the wheelchair, Peter couldn't see what was going on very well. Claire told him with a leaden voice, "It's a child. I think it's a little boy. There's a lot of blood." Peter strained up to see, but there was too much movement for him to get more than glimpses. And anyway, the monitors in front of him were coming to life as sensors and leads were attached in the other room. Claire noticed where he was looking and fiddled with a few switches. The camera, already on, began feeding onto a screen nearby. She repositioned his seat so he could see better.

The boy wasn't quite school age and from what Peter could see, he had multiple gunshot wounds. He had no idea how it had happened, but that was inconsequential. What mattered was that Peter could see from the indicators that the boy was already effectively dead. A knot of tension formed in Peter's chest anyway. Even though he could see there was nothing to be done, he itched to act - anyone would. Claire sighed heavily and wrung her hands together slowly.

Peter could tell that the boy's heart was beating in a lethal arrhythmia. It meant the muscle was still flexing and pumping, but it had gotten stuck in a bad pattern because his body was in shock - it was dying; he was shutting down. Peter figured they were forcing nearly pure oxygen into his lungs. Or at least, they should have been. Given the nature of their work now, they weren't bothering. All they cared about was hooking up the bag of blood they had taken from Peter. The nagging thought about blood type ran through Peter's head again, but he didn't bother to verbalize it. Claire was the only other person in the room, and if Peter's blood could heal, then the blood type didn't matter. If it couldn't, then the child was dead anyway.

Peter prayed that wasn't the case.

He waited hopefully for the beginning of recovery, watching the indicators, looking repeatedly between the camera and the readings. He saw Tina personally check the IV line and he knew something was wrong from the set of her features. The knot of tension grew and he could feel the familiar surge of _do something!_ return in full force. He watched as Tina's face filled with the same urgency he felt. Peter could tell instinctively that she thought the boy should have been showing signs of improvement. Instead, he was getting worse, fast. Orders were barked out and there was a second flurry of activity, but it was fruitless. The boy's fate had been sealed before he ever arrived.

Peter shut his eyes and shook his head, feeling the sadness and emptiness in his gut that always came with losing a patient, even more with the young. No matter how often he saw it, he couldn't help but feel frustrated by the lost opportunity to give someone another chance at life. The technicians backed away slowly, giving each other, and the child's small body, a few moments of rest before starting the inevitable clean-up.

Claire sniffled and Peter's eyes snapped open. He looked up to see tears flowing down her cheeks and a wretched expression on her face. "Claire …" he said softly, sorry that she had to see this.

"No!" The corners of her mouth turned down in misery. "It's always the kids! I hate it when it's little kids. _I can't stand it!_" She wheeled and went to the door, shoving it open. The guards grabbed her immediately. She demanded to see Tina. The door shut behind her, making the rest of what she had to say indistinct. Peter stared at the door thoughtfully. New motion on the monitors caught his eye and he turned to see them bringing Claire into the operating room.

They had stopped the ventilation and the artificial maintenance of the child's life. Even his struggling heart had stopped beating. By most definitions, he was dead, though there was undoubtedly still brain activity going on. Peter heard Claire explain, "I know. I was lying when I said I was tired after two times a day. I can do three."

"But, Claire, it's too late," Tina insisted.

"No, it's not!" Claire's voice was brimming with passionate determination. "You just have to use a bigger dose." She hooked herself up to transfuse her blood directly into the child in the now familiar procedure. After a few more seconds of hesitation, Tina helped.

Peter leaned forward on the edge of his seat, watching, barely breathing. Claire had to know the sacrifice she was making - revealing that she could heal more than the two a day they'd been doing; and the ultimate revelation that her blood, in sufficient quantity, could bring back the dead. If it could - he wasn't sure, but she seemed certain and that was good enough for him. Before, only those people who were already stable, or who were close enough and could be diverted to the clinic, could be saved. If she could affect the recently deceased too, then the pool of potential targets expanded exponentially. Not only had Peter been disproved as an option, but she'd ensnared herself even more thoroughly.

Peter was frightened and concerned that once again, Claire was taking a leap from the Ferris wheel without having thought about the consequences. He was proud of her, that her conscience was still strong under the act of indifference she'd given him earlier, but he worried about what would happen next. If she'd thought her life was proscribed before, it was about to get ten times worse. _I've got to get her out of here! _His concern for Claire's future warred with his pride in her and the desire to see her succeed in saving the boy's life, until Peter was a jumble of apprehension waiting on tenterhooks for the outcome of the heroic scene playing out before him.

A few seconds later, the indicators started to jump. A heartbeat began, thready and irregular at first, but rapidly settling into a healthy pattern. Moments later, independent respiration started up. Consciousness followed within a minute. Peter sighed with both relief and worry as he watched Claire caress the little boy's forehead, saying things to him too quietly for the camera's microphone to pick up. A few moments after that, she disconnected the IV from her arm and pulled the shunt out roughly with a grimace. She gave the boy one last look and patted his arm reassuringly before walking out.


	6. Second Chances

They let Peter go. At least, that was the simple version. It took them more than a day, during which Peter was briefed and threatened with just about everything under the sun if he so much as breathed the truth about the government's little program. It was silly - the word was already out - but they did it anyway.

At the end, he walked away a free man, or as free as he'd been before. _No one is ever really free,_ he reflected as he exited the cab and headed up to his apartment. _There's always … obligations, responsibilities, things you have to do._ He gave a deep sigh, standing in front of his door and noting that the damage from the bag team had been fully repaired. They'd promised that, but it was still surprising to see they'd delivered.

Not for the first time, he considered his mixed feelings about the whole thing. Kirby Plaza had been a simple moral equation - kill millions of innocents, or sacrifice himself. It was an easy decision, one that even Sylar, drowning in blood himself at that time, had comprehended, sadistically volunteering to assist Peter with the inevitable end. It was Claire, though, in whose hands Peter had placed his life - or rather, his death.

The next world-shattering event had been more difficult for him to find the right path, but ultimately the choice was no less black and white. He had to sacrifice his chance to be with Caitlin, he had to let her die in a future that would never exist for him, in order to save 93% of the world's population from the virus. The math was overwhelming, even if the toll it took on his heart was higher.

After that he'd had to parse philosophical issues of control and power with his father and brother, then tackle the daunting task of forgiving the unforgivable with Sylar. He'd never lost track of his moral compass, but the landmarks had become foreign and he wasn't going to pretend that things were simple anymore. It was a complicated world, with complicated issues. When he'd watched Claire jump from the Ferris wheel, he'd had no idea if what she was doing was right or wrong.

He walked in, put his stuff up, and lay down to take a nap. He'd been up all night and was dead tired. He'd already called his work, told them his niece had had an accident and he'd had to go help her. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Claire before he'd left, but her words rang in his ears: '_Is it so wrong for me to be selfish?_ _I'm the only person I have.' _Peter turned from back to side and back again, his body mirroring his thoughts that refused to let him rest.

The thing about obligations and responsibilities was that a person got to _choose_ whether they fulfilled them. Perhaps it was a measure of a person's character, if they were a good or bad person, in how much they did that they were supposed to do - if a parent took good care of their kids, or a dutiful child looked after their parents in the parent's old age, or if they held a job that allowed them to be a productive and helpful member of society - if they contributed; _giving_, rather than taking. Perhaps it was. But that didn't change that people got to _choose_ whether to be good or bad … or somewhere in between. Peter had been allowed choices, over and over. Even if the fate of the whole world, or the fate of a single, formerly blackened soul, had hung in the balance, Peter had had the freedom of choice. It was something he intended to give Claire. Having found an answer and some order to the swirling chaos of his mind, he finally closed his eyes.

Peter didn't sleep long. Even though he'd told his work he wouldn't be in until tomorrow, he had things he had to do today. When he woke, he called Hiro. He had a favor to ask and it was bigger than just borrowing the man's ability.

* * *

><p>Claire was minding her own business in her room when a dark-clad male figure in a Guy Fawkes mask appeared at her side and reached out to touch her elbow. She was too stunned to act. A second later, the room vanished, to be replaced by a nondescript alley after a short jaunt through the teleportational ether. Claire looked at her rescuer, her brows furrowed. "Peter?" Claire asked tentatively, sizing him up and stepping away from him.<p>

Peter took off the mask he'd been wearing. He'd had a choice between a Guy Fawkes or a ski mask. Peter thought the ski mask made him look like a thief or a robber. He felt he was doing something _right_, ultimately, so the Guy Fawkes mask it was. He hoped it would protect his identity. He'd still be a suspect, of course, but they would be able to prove nothing. He was gambling they had enough respect for the law that proof mattered. And if he was wrong, well, then he would worry about that then.

One of the large wooden doors nearby opened and Hiro stepped out. "Peter!" he exclaimed brightly and then nodded just as cheerfully to Claire. "Cheerleader!"

Claire smiled at Hiro, then looked up at the building, then at the bits of skyline she could see at each end of the alley. "I'm not in Kansas anymore," she muttered.

Peter grinned, happy to hear a joke from her, and said, "No. Tokyo."

Hiro waved them both towards him. "Come inside! I did not have a chance to show Peter earlier, so now I show both of you."

Claire looked up at Peter and gave him a sly, grateful smile. "Thank you," she murmured with great depth of feeling as they walked inside Hiro's secret hideout.

"No problem," Peter answered just as quietly. Actually, it was probably going to be quite a bit of a problem, but he was willing to take that chance if it meant knowing Claire was safe and in control of her own body again. He might not agree with her choices, but she had a right to them, and to chart her own course in life.

They walked along slowly and listened while Hiro excitedly told them about the history of the firehouse-turned-lair. He showed them the small kitchen and a couple rooms he'd set up in case anyone needed to sleep there. They ended the tour back out in the main garage, next to a bank of computer screens. "And this," Hiro said grandly, "this is base camp. Ando and I would like to move our phone hotline out here, so someone here can coordinate while we go save people."

Claire's brows rose at the hopeful way Hiro was smiling at her.

Peter decided he really needed to explain things before she felt she was being manipulated into another trap. "Claire, I've explained everything to Hiro - what they were doing to you, where you were, what they know. He's agreed to help you get a new life started here. If that's not what you want, I can take you somewhere else, anywhere else you want to be. I was thinking that in another country, you could start over and make your own decisions. If you decide to help people …" Peter trailed off, not sure what he should say. It was her life. She could do what she wanted with it. He didn't think he should even be making suggestions.

Hiro nodded, saying, "Ando and I are big heroes, like Batman and Robin!" He leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes alight. "We need an Alfred!"

Claire laughed a little. "I could use a job, though I don't think I'm up to Alfred Pennyworth's standards."

Hiro clapped with glee. "You know Batman comic books?"

"I worked in a comic store for a little while," she said with an easy grin. "So yes, you pick up a few things."

Hiro beamed excitedly at Peter. "This is perfect! I must tell Ando!" He hurried off, pulling out his phone.

Claire turned and looked up at Peter, a small, knowing smile on her face. "I should never have doubted you," she said.

Peter leaned one hip against the desk of the 'base camp' and said, "You wanted a brave new world, right? I know this isn't going to be easy. You're going to have to start all over again."

She snorted. "I've had to do that often enough." Claire turned and surveyed the place. It was strange, but not unwelcoming. She could already see a lot she could do. "You know," she said softly, "with Ando's ability to supercharge me, I should be able to help a lot more people than I could before."

Peter blinked several times. "I … uh … I hadn't thought of that."

She looked back at him and raised a brow, but his expression was as startled as his tone of voice. "And with Hiro's, I can help them anywhere."

Peter began to grin, immensely pleased at the way her mind was working. "Wow. Yeah … yeah, I guess you could."

Claire walked over to him and put her arms around him, giving him a long, tight hug. He wrapped his arms around her briefly in return. "Thank you so much for getting me out of there," she murmured against his chest and his arms tightened for a moment in response. She stepped away before it could get awkward. She looked up at him and said, "You know what? You are still _totally_ my hero."

Peter laughed and blushed a little. His gratitude that she was taking this so well was nearly overwhelming, and he felt like breathing a huge sigh of relief. He had succeeded and Claire was going to be okay - for now, anyway. Peter smiled tenderly, knowing they were bound to find trouble sooner or later, but he had faith that together, they would triumph. And if not, then he, and Gabriel if necessary, were only a phone call away if ever help was needed.

Just then, Hiro came bustling back over. He looked momentarily troubled. "Ando was not happy I woke him up," his expression cleared as he went on, "but he said he would come by first thing in the morning. It is 3 AM here now." Hiro turned to Peter. "Are you staying, too?"

"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "I gotta go. I have … obligations. But thanks. I'll make sure to come visit." He walked over and put a hand on Hiro's shoulder. "Take good care of her."

"Of course, Peter," Hiro said, letting his voice stray back into a more mature, reserved tone that reminded Peter of the first time he'd ever met this man, or at least a future version of him, on the subway in New York, years before.

Peter nodded and looked back at Claire, giving her a wink. She grinned and he teleported out.


End file.
